the Demon's Head
by merlintriss
Summary: Henri Ducard knew what it was like to be Bruce Wayne. Once upon a time, he was Bruce Wayne. one-shot


Probably a one-shot. Saw Batman Begins today (as in 30 minutes ago) and started to think about Ra's al Ghul, and even though he has an origin story, I'm not reading it because I came up with something while watching the movie.

Disclaimer-I do not, in fact, own a single thing related to Bat-man. I think I have a batman tin somewhere, and maybe a copy of this DVD, but other than that-nothing.

Ra's al Ghul

When he first saw her, he wasn't expecting her. As a military man, he expected everything, but she-she was completely new.

The office job was a waiting game, sitting in a squeaky chair with his buttoned up blue shirt tucked into somber pants. Humanity waiting for release. In the past, he had led maneuvers on foreign soil, held a mans life in his hands, and waited out the foes on the field. He was used to all of that-and this new frontier-this place known as normalcy was completely out of his league.

He had seen great beauty, he had. In Persian brothels and on streets in Prague, he had seen beautiful women-stunning Galatea's who walk among men. She was not on that level.

Her hair, though blonde, was thin and somewhat limp, though not enough to be distracting. Her form was average and her eyes were a murky shade of blue. But he couldn't take his eyes off of her. The motion of her body was tantalizing, the movements of her hands made him stop. When he stood behind her while waiting for her to get coffee, he could feel her heat and imagine her pressed against him, her body neatly folding into his tall frame.

As Henri Ducard, the name he had assumed when he had taken up the mantle of civilian life, he had no problem with women. His rough angular features and formal manner were enough to charm most to his home. She, if he wanted her to be, wouldn't be an exception. And he wanted her, desired to conquer her, but he wanted to hold off.

Her name was Sophie.

When he held her hand, his encompassed her own. She was so small and frail, and he felt a bodily urge to protect her when they walked together. She didn't blink at his possessiveness, how he wanted her to himself, and lying in post-coital sweat-watching her breath she didn't question his motives when he told her about the army days, when men relied on him and him alone.

She was faithful, she was loyal, and she was perfect. She was also ten years his junior, barely an adult, and was quick to joke with him about it. Gradually, his own interest in her grew beyond the mere instant physical attraction. She was a quick wit, she was a warm smile, and above all, she was his.

A year into their affair, he asked her to marry him, a platinum band encircling her thin finger. The Italian restaurant had seemed stereotypical, but her joy when he got down on one knee was enough to get him to look past his own lack of creativity. In the background he was sure he could make out the strains of music _'Bewitched, bothered, and bewildered am I with you…" _ And he was. Madly. Truly. Deeply.

The ceremony was small, a couple of her friends, a few of his own army buddies, constantly on edge even at the wedding of a peer. She was simple and beautiful in her own way, blonde hair artificially plumped until it was a gentle cloud on her shoulders. A slip of metal on her finger and she was his forever.

But nothing in this world is eternal. The military should have taught him that. He should've known.

He noticed the letter before he noticed she was gone. It was small-a piece of folded white paper left on the counter when he got home. He assumed the mundane, he got the world falling apart. Ransom. More than he had. Don't contact the police or she'll be dead. Four hours.

He called in every favor. Every last one. He couldn't come up with the money. He went to the drop to plead, to beg for her back. He didn't have the money.

She was found dead the next day, a small body in the water. A smaller body inside of her. Her murderers? Her kidnappers? The police said they couldn't' find them. He couldn't forgive them that. He was small, insignificant. They had better fish to fry than some two-bit kidnapping that ended the slaying of a barely pregnant newlywed.

The worst part was that it took him only four days to find the killers. A few words here, a favor there, and he had found them-a couple of downtown thugs, missing teeth and scratching at their meth sores. Death was too easy.

If he was a good person, he wouldn't have brought the gun. Good people do not have Desert Eagle specials in their closets. Good people don't bring these guns to shoot the people who killed their wives. Good men leave it to the police. Henri Ducard was a good man. But Henri Ducard died when the first bullet punctured the first of his wife's killers. When the release of revenge filled him and he was standing there watching dead men's blood on the floor.

It was then, after he tried to throw himself into the ocean that he knew what he had to do. Sophie was dead. Henri Ducard was dead.

He thought back to his days in the military, to a time when he knew what was right and what was wrong. There was a black and white kind of sense to it. The good triumphed and the evil were punished, absolutely. But above all, he remembered the whispered rumors of a group called "the League of Shadows" and a man the Arabs called the Demons Head.

Dripping with salt water, a nameless man went out into the world to find justice.

(A.N-Read and Review)


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